


Distress.exe

by unholygrass



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Connor gets hacked, Connor whump, Father-Son Relationship, Gen, Good Parent Hank Anderson, Hacking, Illnesses, Jericho Crew (Detroit: Become Human) as Family, M/M, Post-Android Revolution (Detroit: Become Human), Post-Pacifist Best Ending (Detroit: Become Human), Sick Character, Sickfic, Virus, and then totally fucked up, incorrect computer jargon, its the sick fic of your dreams with mildly correct android physiology
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-18
Updated: 2018-09-18
Packaged: 2019-07-13 19:49:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,068
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16024778
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/unholygrass/pseuds/unholygrass
Summary: Connor's firewall override is sold online at a black market, and he is crippled by a malicious virus late one night while walking home. He awakes to find Markus looking after him, which would be nice if everything didn't hurt so badly.





	Distress.exe

**Author's Note:**

> IF YOU'RE READING THIS AFTER FEBURARY 19, 2019: HI! im glad you're here. This work was supposed to be a chaptered work, but life punched me in the face and I wanted to write a whole bunch of other things instead, so it has been reduced to a oneshot. I am sorry to anyone who wanted more chapters!!!! I really thought it would be a series, but I was wrong. THank you for taking the time to read it nonetheless!!

**{INITIALIZE STARTUP.exe Y/N?}**

 

**[MANUAL_OVERRIDE: USER RK200_#782.626.501.01 ^^Y]**

 

**{INITIALIZING_STARTUP SEQUENCE.//running}**

 

**{ERROR:ERROR:E &#*##: BIOCOMPO*&!T #kG76 MISSING!}**

 

**{BIO774—**ENT #wp99 MISSING!}**

 

**{REPORT— 9 ERRORS REQUIRING EXTERNAL AND INTERNAL REPAIR: view? Y/N}**

 

**[MANUAL_OVERRIDE: USER RK200_#782.626.501.01 ^^N]**

 

**{CALIBRATING...}**

 

Connor’s vision explodes with light despite not having even opened his eyes. Seventeen error reports demand his attention, flashing red and violent behind his eyelids and startling him enough to make him flinch. They warp sickeningly and make his head throb. It’s a rude awakening that leaves a bitter taste on his artificial taste buds, fingers scraping against padded vinyl. 

 

Padded vinyl?

 

**[MANUAL_OVERRIDE: USER RK200_#782.626.501.01 INITIALIZE: MEMBRANE_REPAIR_SEQUENCE.booted]**

 

Someone was hooked into his system locally, had bypassed all of his firewalls— the fear that shoots through his spine comes out as a strangled gasp that he can’t hear because his audio processors haven’t come online yet—  _ why hadn’t his audio processors come online yet?  _

 

His eyes snap open to clean light and a vaulted ceiling. Only half his sensors are registering, and the other half are throwing dizzying errors. He’s moving on instinct, trying to curl— but there’s a heavy hand on his cheek, another on his neck—

 

_ [—nnor. Connor. Focus here. Right here—]  _

 

Markus. Markus was interfacing with him, touching him. The terror sizzles away down his throat, recognition taking its place. He tilts his head just as Markus swims into view, standing next to him, squatted down as to not loom above his face. Connor reaches up wildly, hand gripping Markus’s forearm. His chest feels like it’s sparking fitfully, something inside of him vibrating loosely when it absolutely shouldn’t be _.  _

 

_ [Connor. Focus.]  _ Markus gives his cheek a little pat, recentering him. He lets out a full body shudder that runs from his toes to his fingers, but manages to clamp down on the panic that washes over him. 

 

_ [You’re safe.]  _ Markus speaks firmly through their mental interfacing, his lips moving even though technically they don’t have to.  _ [We’re at Jericho in midtown. You’re safe.]  _ Connor loosens his grip some, but doesn’t let go. 

 

Markus was here— he was at New Jericho. It was safe. Safe. He has a million questions. The first being—  _ [Why haven’t my audio processors come online?] _

 

Markus shifts and reaches for something while still keeping one hand on the side of Connor’s neck. He pulls over a terminal on wheels and swipes through a few windows before selecting one. He turns back to Connor.  _ [I’ve reuploaded your error report. Take a moment to look through it.]  _ Connor nodded, grim curiosity winning over the unease fogging his thoughts. He briefly wonders why he can’t access his own error report— but when he tries it comes back so terribly corrupted that he winces in discomfort as it sizzles against his temples. 

 

He reads Markus’s report instead, and finds that it is one hell of a fucking read. 

 

He’s impressed he’s online at all. Each one of his systems are in complete disarray, collapsing into one another— two are missing entirely— the list of errors is sixty long total, and the panic comes back with such a vengeance that pressure begins to build behind his eyes, fingers fumbling in rapid taps against each other. 

 

There’s foreign code in his system, malicious in nature and wicked clever. It simply appears among his logs like a tornado out of nowhere, tearing apart his body and sabotaging each of his functions; breaking him down line by line. Everything is corrupted and twisted, painful to look at and too sharp to attempt approach. It’s completely decimated his firewalls and antiviruses, malware flooding whatever parts of his body that the foreign code had not. Almost everything is ruined. His temperature regulator, gyroscope, optical alignments, primary sensors, secondary sensors, data processors, audio sensors, motor function frame, and eight more major bodily functions have gone completely offline. 

 

Along with his skin facade. 

 

His eyes dart quickly to his hand which has come into his line of sight. His stark white chasis glares back at him under the bright fluorescents, gray pressure pads wrapped around his joints and muscle mass. He hasn’t seen himself without his skin for months— it surprises him, makes unease flicker across the nodes in his spine. 

 

His dark eyes flicker to Markus as he pushes against the stretcher, and Markus pulls at him until he’s sat vertical. At first it seems like a mistake— the room darkens and swims before him violently as his optical sensors fail to adjust, and he has to squeeze his eyes shut.  _ [I don’t understand— What happened to me?]  _

 

There’s a terribly startling pop and crackle in the back of his head. 

 

**{AUDIO PROCESSOR_Calibrating: 45% FUNCTIONALITY}**

 

There’s a few more seconds of jarring feedback before sound starts to come through— the heavy hum of computers from the Jericho repair wing, the distant chatter filtering through from the common areas where androids were mulling about. Markus’s touch disappears, and Connor can hear him walk to the corner of the room. 

 

_ [How much do you remember?] _

 

Connor shuddered. He didn’t particularly want to access his memories again— he knew they were corrupted to discomfort. He tells Markus as much. 

 

Markus came and sat on the edge of the stretcher, one hand coming out and taking Connor’s hand, his own skin fading back. The interface is light and unburdened. Markus was only looking to comfort him, sending warmth through their connection. In his peripheral vision Connor could see his bare white reflection blazing back at him in the reflection of one of the computers. The room was larger than any of the private sections, and Connor recognized it as a crisis suite in Jericho’s repair ward.

 

He had helped Simon design these rooms. 

 

“A college student brought you in last night around eleven. He said that you stepped out into the road, and he side swiped you with his car.” Connor’s brow furrowed, confusion maring his plasteel face. Markus gave his arm a squeeze. “We called Hank, and he told us that you were walking home from the precinct because you’d stayed late to continue working and insisted he take the car.” 

 

That sounded... vaguely familiar. But why would he step into the road...? 

 

He pauses. He wanted Hank— 

 

Markus continued before he could stew. “The damage from the car was minimal, but we couldn’t activate you, and your stress levels were hovering at 96%. Your autonomic senses registered a 200% amplification at 10:49 PM, right before you were hit. Someone got ahold of your override and hacked into your systems. It’s why you stepped into the road, and why your code is so corrupted.” 

 

Connor felt faint sparks tingle up the back of his neck, making rouge sensors fire all down his arms and legs. It could be caused by malfunction. It may of also been caused by the suffocating sense of dread wrapping around his chest. Someone had hacked into him— remotely, from the sounds of it. He had spent weeks perfecting his firewalls and antimalware, tearing down the original structures and building them back up stronger than before. He’d been fueled by fear of Amanda and convinced himself he was only doing it to protect all the Jericho and police files that floated around in his head. 

 

And someone had still managed to access his override. 

 

Markus must have felt his fear through their interface, because a sudden surge of confidence and reassurance washes over his main processor. He buries himself in it, gets lost in Markus’s vague protection as he forces his synthetic breathing to activate again. “Where is Hank?” 

 

“Once we stabilized you, he went back to the station with North. She took a copy of the virus’s code that targeted you, and they’ve been tracking it down. They traced it back to a Chris Neil, and went to make the arrest an hour ago. He wanted to be here when you woke, but you activated a few hours before the estimate. I’ve informed him that you’re active again and he is on his way back here.” 

 

Hank was coming. Some of the tension in his shoulders melts away. 

 

“Chris Neil.” The words come out without his permission. He hadn’t meant to speak aloud, but his vocal queues were loose and developing beyond his weak grasp on them. He feels dizzy, his gyroscopes kept flickering on and off, sometimes leveling him out but often leaving the room to swim sickenly. If he were human he would have vomited. 

 

“Do you remember him?” Connor can tell simply from the way Markus is looking at him that he was testing his memory— Connor always remembered everything. He had very advanced access to his long term HDD where he stored his memory files, and recalling things was very easy for him. Markus wanted to be sure that his memory core and main processors had not been corrupted as well. 

 

“Yes.” It’s uncomfortable to pull up the information, but it is still there. “46 years old, owned the bistro on 24th and 3rd, arrested for homicide, financial fraud, and extortion. He was running a gambling ring in his back room and laundering money.” 

 

Markus nodded, seemingly satisfied. “An ex CyberLife employee stole twelve high profile overrides before fleeing Detroit. Yours was one of them. He posted them to a black market and Chris Neil bought yours. He and a cellmate employed a programmer and last night they activated the override and implemented a multipartite and polymorphic virus directly into your software.” 

 

Markus could feel Connor’s distress through their interface, but he could practically see the click in his eyes as he shifted into an investigative mode. He could see the cogs spinning in his head, analyzing that information for what it was. Markus allowed him to for a moment before grabbing his attention once again. “They already have Neil and his accomplices, and they’ve removed the overrides from the market. North informed me that they also had traces of the ex employee as well. It’s being handled.” It was a nice way of telling Connor to quit working on his own case. Connor frowned. 

 

65% of his systems were corrupted or offline. His anti malware was nonexistent and he was vulnerable to any local viruses floating around. It was increasingly difficult to think. His processor felt sluggish and his synthetic nervous system lethargic. There were other issues lying dormant, flickering as they threatened to overwhelm him as well. “How am I going to fix this...?” His eyes fluttered closed as the lights above them suddenly triggered his optical sensors to over adjust their settings automatically, setting themselves too far in the opposite direction, sending a stabbing sensation through his temple. 

 

Markus’s voice was softer. “Josh is drawing up a reconstruction plan right now with some technicians. We’ll be able to assist in the repairs, and that should help cut down your recovery time significantly. Perhaps two weeks.” 

 

Connor felt guilt wash over him. Markus was here looking after him, North was at the station helping Hank track down his attacker, and Josh was drawing up an action outline— He was taking up their time, and he knows personally that they are already very busy running a small nation. He’d met just last week with them to discuss their next trip to Washington and speak about their developments in their individual projects involving Jericho— “You shouldn’t— you’re all busy. I can manage, Jericho needs your attention more—” 

 

Markus’s grip tightens enough to cut him off. His words are firm when he speaks. “No. This takes top priority right now.” 

 

“It shouldn’t—” 

 

“Connor, like it or not, you are a figure head of Jericho.” Markus’s words cut off any argument that was forming on his lips. “I know you prefer to hang back, but everyone knows who you are to the movement. We need you, and all of us care about you. Until you’re running at optimal levels again, you’ll just have to deal with us hovering.” Markus had learned months ago that Connor had a bad habit of assuming everyone hated him. He doesn’t know exactly where it stems from, but all of his friends had learned a long time ago that he needed frequent reminders that he was important and not a burden. Markus was familiar with his mindset and had gotten very good at correcting it. 

 

“Jericho—” 

 

“We are all very proficient at multitasking, Connor. We can look after you and still run the revolution.” He waits until Connor finally concedes, nodding just a bit. “Good.” Markus’s heart hummed gently in his chest as he regarded his friend. Connor’s concern about where the rest of the inner circle were putting their focuses made his heart ache— Connor had become a leader force at Jericho only a month after the ceasefire, but he knew Connor often didn’t consider himself important to the movement. Markus had only been able to convince Connor to join him in the efforts against Washington by initializing his coming along as a mere security buffer. He agreed to tag along to act as a bodyguard, and then North had dragged him into her intelligence network and Josh wanted his help drafting new amendments and Simon was asking him about designing the layout of the new warehouses and Markus had continued to request his attendance to  _ all  _ Washington debates instead of just the one and all of a sudden Connor had gone from a temporary hire to a proper counselor of Jericho. Sure, he wasn’t as vocal as the others, but his input mattered just the same and his influence was obvious around Jericho and among androids. 

 

Markus knew his hesitation to involve himself came from the guilt he still felt at the demise of the original ship and the lives lost there. He just wished Connor could see that everyone else had forgiven him so he could finally forgive himself. He deserved peace and freedom from that burden. 

 

Connor was one of them, whether he realized it or not. 

 

He watched as Connor slipped his hand from the grip, bringing his arms to curl against his chest instead. It was going to take weeks to recover everything that had been destroyed— weeks of running repairs, diagnosis, rebuilding his firewalls, decoding subfiles, and uncorrupting his CPU— but Connor was strong. He would pull through it. 

 

A blip of information came through his cellular connection and Markus’s LED flashed yellow momentarily as he processed it. It was Hank. 

 

“Hank is on his way from the station. He’ll be here within a half hour.” 

 

Connor looked down at himself, frown growing on his face as he did so. He dropped his hands down into his lap, eyeing the plasteel glaring back at him. 

 

Hank had never seen him without his skin before. It left him feeling vulnerable and exposed— it was rare that he ever went without it, the last time being for various repairs after a chase through the city that had ended in a heavy shootout. He still had hasty patch jobs to his stomach from the occasion, and when he looks at the discolored pieces melted around his side he feels more uncomfortable than ever— his skin usually hid all of his scars— only the deepest ones showed through. 

 

But now he was out on display for anyone. He knew some androids prefered going skinless when they could, but Connor was not one of them. 

 

He wadded through his corroded code in search for his skin synthesizer, eyes fluttering closed as he focused. Markus let him be for a moment, and he took advantage of it to dig through the layers of errors snapping against his consciousness. 

 

Eventually he finds his skin controls and takes a moment to access them. They’re in surprisingly good condition, so he switches the facade on, shivering involuntarily at the sensation of his own skin crawling back over his body. 

 

He immediately senses his mistake. Each artificial sensor downloaded into his skin projection has rewritten itself exponentially, resulting in normal sensations to register as harsh and biting— he can feel the faint draft of the room against his back like someone is pressing needles into his spine— the chill of the table beneath him feels like dry ice on his thighs. The sensations are jumbled, innocent pressures corrupted into painful errors that he has never felt before. 

 

He was designed normally so his skin and outer shell perceived exterior stimuli and interpreted them accordingly. They were accustomed to the harsh abuse that came with his dangerous lifestyle, and since they were only cosmetic, very rarely threw errors strong enough to register as discomfort the way certain interior biocomponents did. 

 

Now however, the extreme increase in stimuli was completely overwhelming and smothering— he can feel himself lurch off the table, desperate to be free of the sensation of touching it. His overclocked consciousness blares errors across his vision until his knees buckle, the lines of coding sent through his nervous system corrupting beyond savage. 

 

**{STRESS LEVELS: 79%}**

 

**{STRESS LEVELS: 83%}**

 

**{STRESS LEVELS: 89%}**

 

He must have cried out, because he can feel the vibration of his own voice grating against the skin of his lips, violent little pin pricks cutting him up. The noises come from his throat without his permission, and he wants to stop because  _ it’s too much—  _

 

The cold tile of the crisis room’s floor is so much worse than the table— there are miniscule pieces of dirt from the technicians shoes and two fibers of cotton against the sole of his foot and three pieces of lint containing polyester against the palm of his hand— 

 

**{STRESS LEVELS: 93%}**

 

**{OVERCLOCK}**

 

**{OVERCLOCK}**

 

He’s going to die— 

 

**[MANUAL_OVERRIDE: USER RK200_#782.626.501.01]**

 

**[MANUAL_OVERRIDE: USER RK200_#782.626.501.01: Skin facade— deactivate? Y/N]**

 

**[MANUAL_OVERRIDE: USER RK200_#782.626.501.01 ^^Y]**

 

**[SKIN FACADE DEACTIVATED]**

 

His thirium pump is whirling violently in his chest, and he can actually hear the heavy hum of it in the quiet room. That is absolutely  _ not  _ supposed to happen. He realizes that his artificial breathing had switched off somewhere in his panic, and so had... his ocular sensors. The room had been thrown into a relieving darkness, blocking out a good deal of sensory overload that awaited him. It’s a blessing disguised as a curse really. He hadn’t seen Markus confirm any commands to disable them— a quick glance at the code tells him that they were still functioning, but that none of their input was being processed due to the backlog of sensory requests being blocked. 

 

Until his CPU recovered some, he’d be stuck blind. It was frightening, but he was finding himself too tired to care. He slumped further onto the cool tile, plasteel plates thankfully dulling all the sensations that threatened to bombard him. Without his skin all of his sensors were muted and he was relying on his secondary pressure detectors which were far less advanced. His synthetic muscles gave way next and he didn’t have the power left to pick himself back up. The floor felt like a decent place to power down anyway... 

 

“You can’t sleep there Connor.” There’s gentle hands tugging on him, pulling him up and against something firm and warm. He makes a vague displeased noise, but doesn’t fight it. He should be trying to help— Markus was a busy man, he didn’t need to be down in the repair hub picking Connor’s dumb ass off the floor— but he can’t find the will to do so. He just wants to melt until everything was right again. Maybe go into standby for a few months and then reactivate— 

 

All at once he’s weightless, lifted into the air and off the ground. He’s never been carried before. He’s deposited softly on the stretcher, legs falling off the side as strong hands kept him sitting up. He wonders what Markus’s face looks like— hopes he hasn’t angered him. “Sorry,” His lips aren’t really lining up with his voice, teeth clacking together. He wonders if this is what Hank feels like when he gets wasted. 

 

“I should have told you not to reactivate your skin. It’s technically functional, but it was what was causing you to fall unresponsive earlier. It’s not your fault, Connor. It’s okay.” He may not be able to see his face, but his voice is soothing. Connor is reminded why he likes Markus.

 

He doesn’t realize that he’s swaying forward until his forehead bumps into what he assumes is Markus’s shoulder. He stays there. It’s comfortable enough. His head is full of fog, commands bumping against each other uselessly as his processors tried to work through millions of layers of corrupted code. Nothing is really making it through to the other side where his consciousness awaits output, and anything that does is stalled by three and a half seconds. He feels heavy and lethargic, like gravity had increased upon him by ten. He wants to sleep. His LED begins to pulse slowly as he starts to entire standby. 

 

Markus gives him a gentle, if insistent, shake, bringing him back around. “Clothes first, then you can power down.” He ignores when Connor shakes his head no. Sturdy hands sit him up again, and retreating footsteps inform him that should he fall forward this time he would only meet thin air, so he stays upright out of self preservation. 

 

Some distant part of his mind tries to recall what he was wearing the night before— if he was hit by a car then they were probably trashed. He hopes it wasn’t his maroon sweater. 

 

Markus is back, and there’s a wad of two somethings soft being placed in his lap. He fiddles with the shape of one for a moment, unfolding it and tracing it until he concludes that it’s a sweatshirt. There’s hardened patches of scratchy paint flecked along the hem and across the front in some places, and he concludes that it’s one of Markus’s extras that he paints in. He idly debates what colors are splattered across it. 

 

He must have been too still for too long because hands are guiding him in tugging it over his head, and he wonders how silly he must look in clothing without any skin. He’s not sure he’s ever seen any androids in that state. 

 

Markus’s deft fingers flick up the hood before tugging on the two strings, clinching the hem tightly until it coiled over Connor’s nose. It gets him his desired outcome, and the huff of air that Connor releases rings with laughter. He may be taking advantage of Connor’s mildly delirious state, but he can’t help himself. Getting a smile out of Connor was one of the finer arts in life that he had no qualms in indulging in. He watched him fumble with it for a moment before having mercy on him and freeing him. 

 

Getting the sweatpants on was more difficult. Connor’s balance was non-existent and his knees buckle twice. Markus’s background in caretaking is all that keeps them from toppling to the ground completely. It’s during then that Markus also realizes that Connor can’t see. 

 

He props up the stretcher some before letting Connor finally settle down. He’s seen enough androids in repair without their skin for it to be startling, but it does make Connor look a little more sickly than how he would if he had his skin on. It was rare to see Connor in any state other than the poised and sure in his sharp dress and perfect posture. He was used to the Connor that kept his shoes shined and collar pressed, eyeing shadows for invisible threats and calculating the best way to negotiate around everyone’s discrimination. He could could on one hand the amount of times he had seen Connor flustered or in shambles, and each time had been only after sparing. 

 

Seeing him skinless and wrapped in loose sweats passed out in the crisis ward was somewhat distressing. It was too far out of their normal. 

 

He got a ping from North that they had entered the building, and took a moment to check Connor over once more. He was in bad shape, but they would be able to help heal him. It would take time, but they would manage, and Connor would be fine. 


End file.
